The Last True Apprenticeship
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Time has a way of standing still in some places and if ever there were a place where that was true, that place is Pilottown. You wouldn't judge it by the abandoned houses and the closed up store, but by the mannerisms of those who still inhabit her. There's change about, you can see that much, but some things just don't change. One such entity that has remained intact is the much sought after position of apprentice pilot. Sought after because of the much-coveted pilot positions. If you listen closely, you'll here the echo of "Back when I was an apprentice, the seas were rougher and the fog was thicker..." With that, the folklore of pilotage begins spinning its tale. The age of the pilot is of no consequence once those words have been uttered; for sure to follow is the grandest yarn any could fathom. The younger the pilot, usually the more woebegone the story. I know this for a fact as I once heard a twenty-seven year old man, two years out of the boats, proclaim, "Back when I was an apprentice, we didn't do things like that." Whatever "that" had been I haven't the temerity to recall, but the pricelessness of hearing this boy yammer on is beyond count. All of this should be told in a hushed whisper, for what has been said and what will be said is like telling the secrets of the realm. Those who tell the secrets of the realm will be ignored, turned away and refused all invitations. Thus, I undertake such blasphemy and scandal with quiet whispers and complete faith you're not going to repeat this story to anyone. What is an apprentice? You may be wondering. Well, that all depends on whom you back into a corner and get to answer such questions. To a pilot, there's a patent answer that has been passed down through the generations, a line of balderdash so thorough it can be confused as dogma. It goes something like this: An apprentice is a man that has gone to sea, making little to no money, for the chance to come here before he is guaranteed entrance. Once here, he goes through rigorous training concerning all aspects of the river. From currents to depths, from wind to maneuvering, nothing is left out. Each individual pilot confers upon him his unique way of mastering the pilot profession. He learns through osmosis and assimilation the way of our river and by the time his training period is over, he too may call it his river. Thus concludes the elaborate telling of the party line that is so well imbued that something near to it can be heard from retired pilots to new apprentices. The seasoned apprentice knows that this is what is expected to be said when questioned by someone outside of the realm. He can even be overheard at dinner parties confessing, "Oh, I love my job, I couldn't think of anything else I'd rather do." Even if he doesn't believe this true, he's heard it so many times that the words and enthusiasm are convincing. The apprentice is responsible for learning all sorts of tricks to the trade, but anyone with eyes can see that he is perhaps one step above the indentured servant. Everyone is given a generous pittance below the poverty line; a stipend intended to build character in even the most stalwart of men. In his lengthy servitude, the apprentice can be seen conducting any number of services required by the whim of whomever may be station captain. I like to call this dangling on the whim of a madman. What valuable services can this be that makes an ordinary man an extraordinary pilot? The litany of woes is long, but they include mowing the lawn, hauling groceries in a rickshaw, scrubbing urinals in the early morn and toting baggage for the esteemed pilots. It is often said, in close quarters, that the number of lawns cut measures the difference between an eight-year apprenticeship and a four-year apprenticeship. Any demand made of the apprentice that is met with displeasure is deemed disrespectful on the spot; the slightest twitch seen as whole-hearted rebellion. The punishment is severe and reminiscent of days when pilots' sons swelled the ranks in the loft. He is handed a machete and sent to the marsh to chop away until the river is clear in sight of the station. Disrespectfulness is usually determined by the pilot's mood and the offense can range from an unwillingness to carry baggage to the rolling of ones eyes. Speaking one's mind or not agreeing with the political, moral or religious rhetoric of any one particular pilot at any given point in time can also be considered disrespectful. Not appearing cheerful and exuberant at the mere sight of one of these masters of men also falls into this category. I couldn't tell you if there is an end to the levels of respect that pilots believe are their given due. The affect of attitude is rampant and can often be traced to the roots of every little boy who was told he'd grow up to be a great man like his daddy. To support such inane and princely thinking, thanks can be given to the Times-Picayune, which dubbed them with the royal title of baron. Here, the River Baron was born in infamy and from that throne, endowed by the Lord God and Her Majesty the Mississippi River, birthright and succession descended to this little parcel of earth. From this lofty perch, it becomes a must to have dutiful servants. Enter the apprentice bowing low to the ground. In this profession, servitude is paramount and the humility of a slave is mandatory. The servant is begrudgingly paid a thousand dollars a month, whether he's twenty-one or thirty-one and whether he's been in service one year or ten. To complain about such Spartan wages is to welcome what I call the two mantras of pilot to apprentice, parallel in likeness but separate in meaning. They are: You asked us to be here, we didn't ask you. & You'll do what we say because we tell you. Given all this, some pilots will dare say to an apprentice, "We are in enlightened times" and then begin a story about when the seas were rougher and attitude was better. Conversely, eyes will roll prompting the pilot to comment that all the lowly slave has to talk about is their one-year of sea time. The perception being that that is the only worldly experience he's gained. While this once may have been true, it is no longer. In these changing, enlightened times, the apprentice is required to have more than just a high-school equivalency, a year at sea and a father for a pilot. He is expected to have a degree of some sort and is, more often than not, better educated than seventy-five percent of his predecessors. This is a fact that is a malicious breeding ground of contempt for higher education. Education is not something to be revered on the river. To be caught reading is to be put under the limelight and open to scrutiny. To exhibit knowledge of art is to bring criticism and cynicism and comment. "Lot of good your education does you down here college boy." The apprentice persists despite all onslaughts, comforted in the fact that it is usually fear that brings wrath upon his head. Fear of being found ignorant, fear of being discovered an ass and fear of being found wanting. "Enlightened times," the apprentice will snicker, knowing there is no such thing on the island. Still, I have jumped ahead of myself. I've neglected to get to the point of what an apprentice is and instead given the situation in which he lives. Given the practiced face of tradition, it is near impossible to explain the core of the matter itself, hidden under facts that can't be substantiated. An apprentice is nothing more than an underpaid, undervalued man, considered only important when he is a yes man to people's egos. You may know him by this sign; he wears a smile on his face while a look of resentment gleams in his eye. He is confident that he will prevail despite the mentality that is purported by the senior most pilot, that "we own their ass." All will be well one day when the brass ring is
polished and all transgressions by pilots will be forgiven and they welcome
him with open arms as an equal partner. This is the apprentice, the future
of the river. |